Greg Iles - Sleep No More

“You’re still on your Mallory kick, aren’t you?” Cole leaned forward, his forehead knotted in thought. “Don’t tell me you were right about ‘Soon,’ and all that? Eve’s not actually trying to run that line on you? That she’s Mallory?”

Waters said nothing. A saying of his father’s had always stuck with him: Two people can keep a secret, if one of them’s dead. Yet the temptation to confide in Cole was strong. As far as he knew, his partner had never spilled any of his secrets.

“Eve knows things,” Waters said softly. “Things no one but Mallory ever knew.”

“We talked about that, John. You don’t know what Mallory told people about you. She lived for, what? Nine years after you two split as a couple?”

“I know. But that’s not all. Eve…”

“What?”

“She kisses the way Mallory did. Exactly like her.”

Cole barked a laugh. “Do you really remember how Mallory kissed? Does a guy remember that? There aren’t really any unique ways to do it. This is in your head, mon.”

“I remember how she kissed. It was unforgettable. It’s like muscle memory. Like riding a bike. You can’t forget it. It’s deeper than conscious thought.”

“You’re losing your mind, Rock. You need a week in Cabo.”

Waters shook his head. “I’ve seen her handwriting. It’s identical to Mallory’s. She left me a note at the cemetery, just like Mallory used to, and the handwriting was exactly the same.”

For the first time, Cole looked intrigued. “Do you have this note?”

“No. I think I left it at the cemetery. I may have put it back in the jar.”

“Back in the jar.” Cole nodded like a cop humoring an escaped mental patient. “I see. And this note was signed ‘Mallory’?”

“Yes.”

“John, Eve Sumner is either batshit crazy or running a scam on you.”

Waters thought of the scars on Eve’s arm and thighs, but he did not want to mention them. Since he had never told Cole about Mallory’s self-mutilation, Cole might think he had made it up on the spot.

“Personally, I think it’s a scam,” Cole asserted. “She’s looking for money, baby.”

Waters shook his head. “She doesn’t want money.”

“What, then? You think that forty-one-year-old dick of yours is different from the last ten she had? She wants your money, boy, nothing else.”

“Eve doesn’t want money!” Waters snapped. “ You’re the only person who’s asked me for money recently.”

It was a reflexive blow, but Cole snapped back as though he’d been dealt a mortal wound. After a stunned moment, he stood and walked to the door, but before he went through, he turned and spoke in a quavering voice.

“I’m going to forget you said that, partner. And you’re right about one thing. Where you dip your wick is your own business. I just don’t want to see you lose Lily and Annelise. You’re not me, and Lily isn’t Jenny. Lily won’t take this well if she finds out. She won’t look the other way. And if you keep this shit up, she will find out. That’s the only sure bet I know. Because they always do.”

Waters stared out the window until Cole closed the door. He knew his partner’s advice was the fruit of bitter experience, but he didn’t much care. All he cared about right now was the cell phone on his desk. He wanted it to ring.

It didn’t. It lay there like an insult for an hour, then two, its silence a goad to his pride and to his faith in Eve. Like a junkie going cold turkey, he fought the urge to call her office. He tried a dozen distractions, but none worked.

Ten minutes before noon, it finally rang. With two chirps of the ringer, he was back on the crest of the wave, Cole’s warnings forgotten. But when he answered, Eve did not say, “Ten minutes.” She said, “We’ve got a problem. Don’t say anything.”

It was a measure of how much perspective Waters had lost that her words did not cause him panic.

“Some film producers are flying in from Los Angeles,” she explained. “The ones who bought Penn Cage’s novel. They’re considering shooting the film on location here.”

“Uh-huh.” Waters had no idea what this could have to do with him.

“The Historic Foundation is coordinating the visit, and they’re putting the producers up in Bienville for the week.”

“Ahh.” The strung-out addict’s feeling returned with a vengeance as he wondered if they would miss today’s rendezvous.

“Today’s no good,” Eve went on, confirming his fear. “But check the jar.”

He started to say something, but she’d already clicked off. Locking the portfolio in his bottom drawer, he got his keys and walked quickly to the back stairs, his mind already at the cemetery.

When he arrived at Catholic Hill, he parked and ran behind the wall to dig up the mason jar. Inside lay a piece of blue notepaper and a hotel key card. When he unfolded the paper, he saw Mallory’s flowing script.

Johnny,

This is a key to Suite 324 at the Eola Hotel. I’ve rented it for the week. I know the Eola is right in the middle of town, but it’s the safest place for us. It has a bar inside the Main Street entrance, so if anyone sees you go in, you can always say you were going to the bar. The Pearl Street entrance is best for you, though. It’s possible to get all the way to our suite without being seen. The security guard sits deep in the lobby, and he probably won’t see you. Even if he does, he won’t look at you more than a second if you’re dressed nice. Go in and immediately turn left. You’ll see a staircase leading to the mezzanine. Walk up, then take the elevator to the third floor. There’s an exposed walkway just before the suite’s door, where you can be seen from the courtyard or from rooms above, so walk fast there. I’ll be there by 10:30 p.m.

M

He put the jar back in its hole, but this time he kept the note. As soon as he got back to the office, he got the portfolio back out and did something he had not yet found the courage to do: he opened the bundle of Mallory’s old letters.

The handwriting matched perfectly.

When he arrived at the Eola suite that night, he saw that she’d been right to choose it. The brick and stone hotel was a local landmark; it occupied most of a city block, and at seven stories had held the title of tallest building in the city for decades. Two popular nightclubs operated nearby, and their patrons frequently spilled out into Main Street, go cups in hand as they laughed and danced to the beat of live bands thumping through the walls. On any given night, those bars were filled with people who would recognize Waters on sight, but he felt reasonably safe approaching on foot from Pearl Street, as Mallory had told him to do.

Entering the doors of the grand hotel hurled him back in time, not twenty years but thirty. When he was a boy, his father had often brought the family to the Eola for Sunday dinner. He still remembered his passage through the lobby as they walked to the restaurant. Old men sat in club chairs, smoking cigars and playing checkers; a black shoe-shine man quietly solicited business; an attendant with a gold-braided uniform manned the elevator, which had a brass cage door that Waters always dreamed of opening and closing. He could still hear his father ordering shrimp remoulade from the red-haired waitress, still see the sliced yellow pound cake, strawberries, and whipped cream that awaited them for dessert.

On the first night he met Eve, the lobby was empty but for a lone security guard who sat far away with his back to the door. A bell rang somewhere, but as Eve had predicted, the guard did not challenge him. A dark business suit provided all the bona fides he needed for access.